


The Effects of Certain Experimental Treatments on Short, Bald Men

by calis_1st



Category: White Collar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calis_1st/pseuds/calis_1st
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mozzie's experimental treatment for a very rare disease goes awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Effects of Certain Experimental Treatments on Short, Bald Men

 

  
**Title: The Effects of Certain Experimental Treatments on Short, Bald Men**

**Author** : calis_1st  
 **Rating:** PG  
 **Characters** : Neal, Mozzie  
 **Spoilers** : None  
 **Word count** : ~ 1200

**Disclaimer** : Characters are all from the brilliant mind of Jeff Eastin and probably a writer or two.

**Summary:** Mozzie's experimental treatment for a very rare disease goes awry.

**Note** : For my[ round 5 h/c bingo card](http://calis-1st.livejournal.com/17517.html), **surprise sex swap**.  There's very little hurt (nerves are shot, doesn't that count?), with maybe a tad bit more comfort.  Okay, it's a lot closer to  crack than anything, but I was desperate to finally get back to my bingo card.

  
"Mozzie, what did you do?" asked Neal very carefully, using a tone of voice meant to not startle small children and nervous cats that still had claws. 

  
"Why do you ask?"

  
"For one thing, you have hair that looks nothing like a wig.  For another, your body - shape - has, well,  shape."

  
"Oh.  It's noticeable?"

  
"Yeah, it is."

  
"Hmph.    I was testing out a new treatment for tularemia.  I guess this particular mixture had more estrogenic properties than I expected."

  
"Tularemia?  Really, Moz?  When was the last case reported in NYC?"

  
"There've been four cases since 2004.  Two were on Staten Island in 2004 and 2007.  Brooklyn had a case in 2008.  And there was one in Manhattan in 2009, although she may have brought it over from Europe.  Neal, it's just a matter of time."  The pitch of his voice was rising.  Neal didn't know if it was nerves or hormones.

  
"Moz, do you need to see someone about your - side effects?"

  
"Aww,  you're sweet for worrying.  I'm sure they'll wear off soon enough.  Hey, you're not planning any trips to Staten Island, are you?"

  
"It's outside my  radius so, nothing soon."

  
"Good.  But if you do, let me know.  I'll give you a shot.  Better safe than infected with tularemia."

  
Mozzie sat on Neal's loveseat and patted the empty cushion beside him.

  
"Neal?"

  
"Mozzie?"

  
"Join me?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and smiling shyly.

  
"When did you say you tested this new drug?"

  
"Last week.  You're just now noticing I haven't been around?"

  
"Let's face it, Moz, you often disappear for days at a time.  I usually start worrying about you after a we - five days," he said, noticing a scowl on Mozzie's face.

  
"Then, come sit beside me.  You look like you've had a long day."

  
Neal took a step back.

  
"Moz,  you're kind of freaking me out."

  
"What, can't a guy just want his best friend to be comfy in his own home?"

  
Neal sighed.  This was far from Mozzie's first experimentation with pharmaceuticals, although it was the first time Neal was aware that Moz was self-testing.

  
"Sure, okay.  Wine?  Or do you need to stay alcohol-free?"

  
"Do you have a white zin?  Or maybe a Reisling?"

  
Neal walked over to his wine rack.

  
"A little sweet for you, aren't they?" he asked, opening a Reisling he'd found on the lower part of the rack.

  
"What can I say, I've developed a taste for them recently," Mozzie said, with a slight giggle as he sipped from the glass.  "Aren't you joining me?"

  
"I think this calls for something more of an amber color," Neal replied, as he poured two fingers - then a third - of scotch.

  
"So," Neal asked, after he settled next to Mozzie, "how long do you expect these side effects to last?"

  
"Oh, I don't know, it shouldn't be more than a couple more weeks, three tops.  The pharmacology of  the mixture indicates a biological half life of no more than four days, so, eight half-lives is just over a month.  Of course, I somehow missed the feminizing effect, so I could be off in my calculations."

  
Neal sighed.

  
"Where are you staying in the meanwhile?"

  
Mozzie had snaked one arm over the back of the loveseat and behind Neal's head.

  
"I was kind of hoping I could stay here.  It's - it's kind of lonely at Sunday, and you have a far superior wine assortment than I have. And nicer furniture.  And bed linens."   His hand had found Neal's shoulder. 

  
"I don't know, Moz.  What happens when Peter shows up?  You know he will."

  
Neal slid forward from his seat (and the hand that had just started massaging his shoulder) and turned to look at his friend, just in time to see a tear start to form on his lower lid, followed by a slight sniffle.

  
"Never mind, Neal, I just thought - I don't know what I thought.  I'm not exactly myself, and I hoped that you, out of everyone I know, would understand that feeling of being out of control, and needing a safe place to hide.  It's okay."  He started to stand.

  
"No, no, you're absolutely right," Neal said, pulling Mozzie back to the couch.  "Stay here as long as you need to."  He finished his tumbler of scotch and eyed the bottle, but was pretty sure nothing good could come of inebriation. 

  
Mozzie looked up at Neal with a heartbreakingly sweet smile, as the tears that had been forming in his eyes slid down his cheeks.

  
"You're the best friend a man could ever hope for," he said to Neal.

  
Neal looked at the bottle again, reconsidering his earlier caution about getting drunk, but shook those thoughts away as he realized Mozzie was tentatively holding his hand.

  
"Moz," he said a little more sternly than he'd meant to, "look at what you're doing,  You've never been a touchy-feely kind of guy, so, if you remember this - and I'm sure you will, eidetic memory and all - maybe you want to be more of a Theodore and less of a Thea. Okay?"

  
Mozzie nodded and withdrew his hand.

  
"Sorry, I didn't even realize it.  But, you know you're a really good looking man, don't you? "

  
Neal jumped up and looked panicked.

  
"I'm just saying, I'm not going to do anything.  But, you know..."

  
"Mozzie, we will never speak of this again.  Never.  This conversation didn't happen.  And, for the duration, no more wine for you."

  
Neal had taken to pacing and running one hand through his hair.

  
"Fair enough, but, for the sake of complete disclosure, you're going to have to not do that for the next few weeks, as well."

  
"Do what?"

  
"That thing you're doing right now, with your hand and your hair.  You don't know what it's like for guys like me who pretty much can't."

  
Neal stopped immediately.

  
"Sorry, Moz, I won't do it again."

  
He sat down next to Mozzie again.

  
Mozzie's hand crept up and lightly touched  the back of Neal's head.

  
"Sorry, man, I'm sorry.  Maybe you should sit -"  Mozzie waved toward the kitchen table.

  
Neal grabbed his empty glass and, well, didn't exactly run, but definitely moved faster than a stroll, to the chair right in front of the bottle of scotch.  To hell with his earlier resolve; if there was ever a reason to get utterly drunk, other than sampling a forged bottle of whiskey, this was probably it.

  
"Three weeks, huh?"

  
Mozzie just nodded.

  
"Good, then you'd better think of what you're going to tell Peter, and soon.  Even I can't come up with a story that won't end up with at least one of us in some sort of an institution.  Just be sure to let me know when I sober up."

  
Neal filled the tumbler halfway.

  
"Are you expecting Peter anytime soon?  You know, I never really thought about it, but he's a pretty good looking guy, too.  In a Suit-like, rugged sort of way."

  
Neal froze, then carried both his drink and the bottle to the sink and poured both down the drain.

  
"Three weeks, huh?"  was all he could say.

 

* <http://www.nyc.gov/html/doh/html/em/tularemia.shtml>


End file.
